Meat Raffle Revisited

This begins a 2-part blog regurgitated from a piece I wrote in 2006 

 - worth your time if you are curious about Minnesota bar culture. 

Meat Raffle

A meat raffle is a Minnesotan tradition of

raffling off meat, often in bars.

-Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Roseville VFW Post 7555 had the stale beer and cigarettes stench of an authentic neighborhood dive. I walked through the door and knew immediately that this was a fitting place for me to experience my first meat raffle: not just because of the odor that enveloped me, but because military and fraternal clubs such as VFW's, Legions, and Lodges were the original hosts to charitable gabling. It was within their hallowed walls that the meat raffle was born sometime around World War II.

After signing the guest registry I turned to inspect the place. Stools framed the bar along the back wall; about a dozen bodied slouched over beers. The patrons were mostly middle-aged white men and several women. Folding tables and chairs filled the other two-thirds of the bar in orderly rows. In the back corner stood the plexi-glassed pull-tab enclosure, several dart games, and an ATM.

A gaggle of dolled-up waitresses huddled near the bar discussing section assignments. They directed me toward Barb, the woman running that day’s meat raffle.

Barb, equal parts sassy diner waitress (think Flo from Mel's Diner) and sweet cookie-baking grandma, cheerfully busied herself setting up the raffle accouterments and chatting about meat raffles and her job at the club. She works the raffles every other week, sharing the duties with another woman. “It starts to get busy about five after one,” Barb told me, warning that she wouldn’t have much time to talk once the raffle began at one o’clock.

Meat raffles are regulated by the state Gambling Control Board, not by the Minnesota Department of Health. I asked if Barb was concerned about the safety of raw meat sitting at room temperature for hours. The question surprised her, and she observed that food safety had never been an issue, “Especially when it is winter, like now, customers can bring the meat out to their cars and it stays pretty cold.”

A long folding table was set up next to the pull-tab booth and Barb began placing cello wrapped packages of assorted meat into bins of ice; a pink flesh peep show to lure players. Each package was worth about $15 of carnivorous pleasure. After counting the cash in a till drawer that sat next to the chilled meat, Barb dumped the first of 18 labeled tubs of numbered tickets into a red fry basket.

I quickly learned that it is impossible to be anonymous at a meat raffle. The regulars along the bar eyed me and my camera with suspicion. “Who are you? What’s your name? Why are you taking pictures? Are you working for the FBI? Are you with the IRS?” They rifled questions at me, all the while guffawing in wonder as to why anyone would want to take photos at a meat raffle.

As start time loomed a steady flow of patrons took empty seats at the bar or sat with friends at the tables. A numbered paddlewheel topped a table near the entrance. Like a sunflower it poked above the heads of seated customers. Technically, this Meat Raffle was not a raffle, but a Paddlewheel game. There are three forms of meat raffles, with the winners determined by uncovering a seal (tipboards), drawing a ticket (raffles), or spinning a numbered wheel (paddlewheel). Regardless of the equipment used, to participants across Minnesota a meat raffles is a Meat Raffle.

Barb called the start of the first round, and players lined up eight-deep to buy $1 tickets. Each raffled has 30 tickets per round, and they sell fast. A bundle of efficiency, Barb settled in; selling tickets, preparing the next spin’s tray, marching to the paddlewheel, spinning the wheel, and calling the winning number over the intercom at the bar.

The rowdy group at the bar allows me to sit with them. I’m introduced all around. They tease me about setting me up and run through a list of all the eligible men they know. I’m flattered but wonder silently if I should have worn my wedding ring.

“See this guy over here?” The brunette matriarch has a twinkle in her eye as she points to a silver-haired gentleman at the corner. “He’s been playing for sixteen years and has never won!” The group hoots, but Guy Who Never Wins doesn’t’ change his expression. I’m not sure if I see hope or apathy. Next to his beer is a stack of ones.

Next... politics, Jägermeister, and civic pride.